For comfort he looked forward to the hour when it would be dark. "By hook or by crook," he muttered, "I shall enter then."
He had barely finished the sentence, when he observed moving along the ramparts towards him a figure he knew. It was Grio. There was nothing strange in the man"s presence in that place, for he was an idler and a sot; but Claude did not wish to meet him, and debated in his mind whether he should retreat before the other came up. Pride said one thing, discretion another. He wanted no fracas, and he was still hanging doubtful, measuring the distance between them, when--away went his thoughts. What was Grio doing?
The Spaniard had come to a stand, and was leaning on the wall, looking idly into the fosse. The posture would have been the most natural in the world on a warm day. On that day it caught Claude"s attention; and--was he mistaken, or were the hands that, under cover of Grio"s cloak, rested on the wall busy about something?
In any case he must make up his mind whether he moved or stayed. For Grio was coming on again. Claude hesitated a moment. Then he determined to stay. The next he was glad he had so determined, for Grio after strolling on in seeming carelessness to a point not twenty yards from him, and well commanded from his seat, leant again on the wall, and seemed to be enjoying the view. This time Claude was sure, from the movement of his shoulders, that his hands were employed.
"In what?" The young man asked himself the question; and noted that beside Grio"s left heel lay a piece of broken tile of a peculiar colour.
The next moment he had an inspiration. He drew up his feet on the seat, drew his cloak over his head and affected to be asleep. What Grio, when he came upon him, thought of a man who chose to sleep in the open in such weather he did not learn, for after standing a while--as Claude"s ears told him--opposite the sleeper, the Spaniard turned and walked back the way he had come. This time, and though he now had the wind at his back, he walked briskly; as a man would walk in such weather, or as a man might walk who had done his business.
Claude waited until his coa.r.s.e, heavy figure had disappeared through the Porte Terta.s.se; nay, he waited until the light began to fail. Then, while he could still pick out the red potsherd, he approached the wall, leant over it, and, failing to detect anything with his eyes, pa.s.sed his fingers down the stones.
They alighted on a nail; a nail thrust lightly into the mortar below the coping stone. For what purpose? His blood beginning to move more quickly Claude asked himself the question. To support a rope? And so to enable some one to leave the town? The nail, barely pushed into the mortar, would hardly support the weight of a dozen yards of twine.
Perhaps the nail was there by chance, and Grio had naught to do with it.
He could settle that doubt. In a few moments he had settled it. Under cover of the growing darkness, he walked to the place at which he had seen Grio pause for the first time. A short search discovered a second nail as lightly secured as the other. Had he not been careful it would have fallen beneath his touch.
What did the nails there? Claude was not stupid, yet he was long in hitting on an explanation. It was a fanciful, extravagant notion when he got it, but one that set his chilled blood running, and his hands tingling, one that might mean much to himself and to others. It was unlikely, it was improbable, it was out of the common; but it was an explanation. It was a mighty thing to hang upon two weak nails; but such as it was--and he turned it over and over in his mind before he dared entertain it--he could find no other. And presently, his eyes alight, his pulses riotous, his foot dancing, he walked down the Corraterie--with scarce a look at the house which had held his thoughts all day--and pa.s.sed into the town. As he pa.s.sed through the gateway he hung an instant and cast an inquisitive eye into the guard-room of the Terta.s.se. It was nearly empty. Two men sat drowsing before the fire, their boot-heels among the embers, a black jack between them.
The fact weighed something in the balance of probabilities: and in growing excitement, Claude hurried on, sought the cookshop at which he had broken his fast--a humble place, licensed for the scholars--and ate his supper, not knowing what he ate, nor with whom he ate it. It was only by chance that his ear caught, at a certain moment, a new tone in the goodwife"s voice; and that he looked up, and saw her greet her husband.
"Ay!" the man said, putting off his bandoleer, and answering the exclamation of surprise which his entrance had evoked. "It"s bed for me to-night. It"s so cold they will send but half the rounds."
"Whose order is that?" asked a scholar at Claude"s table.
"Messer Blondel"s."
"Shows his sense!" the goodwife cried roundly. "A good man, and knows when to watch and when to ha" done!"
Claude said nothing, but he rose with burning cheeks, paid his share--it was seven o"clock--and, pa.s.sing out, made his way back. It should be said that in addition to the Terta.s.se Gate, two lesser gates, the Treille on the one hand and the Monnaye on the other, led from the town proper to the Corraterie; and this time he chose to go out by the Treille. Having ascertained that the guard-room there also was almost denuded of men, he pa.s.sed along the Corraterie to his bastion, hugging the houses on his right, and giving the wall a wide berth. Although the cold wind blew in his face he paused several times to listen, nor did he enter his bastion until he had patiently made certain that it was untenanted.
The night was very dark: it was the night of December the 12th, old style, the longest and deadest of the year. Far below him in the black abyss on which the wall looked down, a few oil lamps marked the island and the town beyond the Rhone. Behind him, on his left, a glimmer escaping here and there from the upper windows marked the line of the Corraterie, of which the width is greatest at the end farthest from the river. Near the far extremity of the rampart a bright light marked the Porte Neuve, distant about two hundred yards from his post, and about seventy or eighty from the Porte Terta.s.se, the inner gate which corresponded with it. Straight from him to the Porte Neuve ran the rampart a few feet high on the inner side, some thirty feet high on the outer, but shrouded for the present in a black gloom that defied his keenest vision.
He waited more than an hour, his ears on the alert. At the end of that time, he drew a deep breath of relief. A step that might have been the step of a sentry pacing the rampart, and now pausing, now moving on, began to approach him. It came on, paused, came on, paused--this time close at hand. Two or three dull sounds followed, then the sharper noise of a falling stone. Immediately the foot of the sentry, if sentry it was, began to retreat.
Claude drove his nails into the palms of his hands and waited, waited through an eternity, waited until the retreating foot had almost reached, as he judged, the Porte Terta.s.se. Then he stole out, groped his way to the wall, and pa.s.sed his hand along the outer side until he came to the nail. He found it. It had been made secure, and from it depended a thin string.
He set to work at once to draw up the string. There was a small weight attached to it, which rose slowly until it reached his hand. It was a stone about as large as the fist, and of a whitish colour.
CHAPTER XXIII.
IN TWO CHARACTERS.
After the wave, the trough of the wave; after action, pa.s.sion. Not to sink a little after rising to the pitch of self-sacrifice, not to shed, when the deed is done, some bitter tears of regret and self-pity, were to be cast in a mould above the human.
When the cloak--dear garment!--had slipped from her hands and the head bent that its owner might raise the cloak had pa.s.sed from sight--when Anne had fled to the farther side of the room, to the farther side of the settle, and had heard his step die away, she would have given the world to see him again, to feel his arm about her, to hear the sound of his voice. The tears streamed down her face; in vain she tried to stay them with her hands, in vain she chid herself for her weakness. "It is for him! for him!" she moaned, and hid her face in her hands. But words stay no tears; and on the hearth which his coming had changed for her, standing where she had first seen him, where she had heard his first words of love, where she had tried him, she wept bitter tears for him.
The storm died away at last--for after every storm falls a calm--but it left the empty house, the empty heart, silence. Her mother? She had still her mother, and with lagging footsteps she went upstairs to her.
But she found her in a deep sleep, and she descended again, and going to his room began to put together his few belongings, the clothes he had worn, the books he had read; that if the house were entered they might not be lost to him. She buried her face in his garments and kissed them, fondly, tenderly, pa.s.sionately, lingering over the task, and at last putting the things from her with reluctance. A knot of ribbon which she had seen him wear in the neck of his shirt on holidays she took and hid in her bosom, and fetching a length of her own ribbon she put it in place of the other. This she thought she could do without fear of bringing suspicion on him, for he alone would discern the exchange.
Would he notice it? Would he weep when he found the ribbon as she wept now? And fondle it tenderly? At the thought her tears gushed forth.
The day wore on. Supported by the knowledge that even a slight shock might cast her mother into one of her fits, Anne hid her fears from her, though the effort was as the lifting of a great weight. On the pretext that the light hurt the invalid"s sight, she shaded the window, and so hid the hollows under her eyes and the wan looks that must have betrayed the forced nature of her cheerfulness. As a rule Madame Royaume"s eyes, quickened by love, were keen; but this day she slept much, and the night was fairly advanced when Anne, in the act of preparing to lie down, turned and saw her mother sitting erect in the bed.
The old woman"s eyes were strangely bright. Her face wore an intent expression which arrested her daughter where she stood.
"Mother, what is it?" she cried.
"Listen!" Madame Royaume answered. "What is that?"
"I hear nothing," Anne said, hoping to soothe her. And she approached the bed.
"I hear much," her mother retorted. "Go! Go and see, child, what it is!" She pointed to the door, but, before Anne could reach it, she raised her hand for silence. "They are crossing the ditch," she muttered, her eyes dilated. "One, two, many, many of them! Many of them!
They are throwing down hurdles, and wattles, and crossing on them! And there is a priest with them----"
"Mother!"
"A priest!" Her voice dropped a little. "The ladders are black," she whispered. "Black ladders! Ay, swathed in black cloth; and now they set them against the wall. The priest absolves them, and they begin to mount. They are mounting! They are mounting now."
"Mother!" There was sharp pain in Anne"s voice. Who does not know the heartache with which it is seen that the mind of a loved one is wandering from us? And yet she was puzzled. She dreaded one of those scenes in which her young strength was barely sufficient to control and soothe the frail form before her. But they did not begin as a rule in this fashion; here, though the mind wandered, was an absence of the wildness to which she had become inured. Here--and yet as she listened, as she looked, now at her mother, now into the dimly lighted corners of the room, where those dilated eyes seemed to see things unseen by her, black things, she found this phase no less disquieting than the other.
"Hush!" Madame Royaume continued, heeding her daughter"s interruption no farther than by that word and an impatient movement of the hand. "A stone has fallen and struck one down. They raise him, he is lifeless!
No, he moves, he rises. They set other ladders against the wall. They mount now by tens and twenties--and--it is growing dark--dark, child.
Dark!" She seemed to try to put away a curtain with her hands.
"Mother!" Anne cried, bending over the bed and taking her mother"s hand. "Don"t, dear! Don"t! You frighten me."
The old woman raised her hand for silence, and continued to gaze before her. Anne"s arm was round her; the girl marked with astonishment, almost with awe, how strongly and stiffly she sat up. She marvelled still more when her mother murmured in the same tone, "I can see no more," sighed, and sank gently back. Anne bent over her. "I can--see no more," Madame Royaume repeated; "I can----" She was asleep!
Anne bent over her, and after listening a while to her easy breathing, heaved a deep sigh of relief. Her mother had been talking in her sleep; and she, Anne had alarmed herself for nothing. Nevertheless, as she turned from the bed she looked nervously over her shoulder. The other"s wandering or dream, or what it was, had left a vague disquiet in her mind, and presently she took the lamp and, opening the door, pa.s.sed out, and, with her hands still on the latch, listened.
Suddenly her heart bounded, her startled eyes leapt upward to the ceiling. Close to her, above her, she heard a sound.
It came from a trap-door that led to the tiles; a trap that even as her eyes reached it, lifted itself with a rending sound. Save for the bedridden woman, Anne was alone in the house; and for one instant it was a question whether she held her ground or fled shrieking into the room she had left. For an instant; then the instinct to shield her mother won the day, and with fascinated eyes she watched the legs of a man drop through the aperture, watched a body follow, and--and at last a face!
Claude"s face! But changed. Even while she sank gasping against the wall--for the surprise was too much for her--even while he took the lamp from her shaking hand and supported her, and relief and joy began to run like wine through her veins, she knew it. The forceful look, the tightened lips, the eyes gleaming with determination--all were new to her. They gave him an aspect so old, so strange, that when he had kissed her once she put him from her.
"What is it?" she said. "Oh, Claude! What is it? What has happened?"
Letting a smile appear--but such a smile as did not rea.s.sure her--he signed to her to go before him downstairs. She complied; but at the foot of the first flight she stopped, unable to bear the suspense longer. She turned to him again. "What is it?" she cried. "Something has happened?"
"Something is happening," he answered. His eyes shone, exultant. "But it is a matter for others! We may be easy!"
"What is it?"